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May 30th, 2025

Journal Writing

May 30th, 2025

Pasta la Vista, Middle Class Meals

By

Last weekend, I made Million Dollar Spaghetti. It had all the usual suspects—layers of spaghetti, meat sauce, and enough cheese to qualify for a dairy subsidy. Rich? Sure. But it didn’t make me feel like I needed to open an offshore account.

As I took that first bite, I couldn’t help but wonder: what if it were better? Not just millionaire-level indulgent… I’m talking Billion Dollar Spaghetti. A dish so rich, it comes with a financial advisor and a confidentiality agreement.

To truly feel like I’m swimming in money, I’d like to fill an Olympic-sized pool with it. Foam pool noodles required, of course—you don’t want to drown in your assets. I picture diving in headfirst, lifeguard on duty in a cummerbund, warning me not to do backstrokes through the bolognese. The pool rules? No running, no cannonballs, and absolutely no splashing marinara outside your tax bracket.

Step one: we ditch the Food Club pasta. That’s peasant-tier. We want Country Club spaghetti—enriched, imported, and flown in from Italy on its own private jet (preferably first class, because coach just won’t cut it for carbs of this caliber).

Next: marinara. But not just any marinara—we’re going with Billionaire Marinara™, simmered with 1775 Massandra Sherry de la Frontera and the tears of a sommelier who couldn’t afford it.

Mushrooms? Please. We’re upgrading to black truffles, naturally sniffed out by piggy banks trained on Brasher Doubloons. If it doesn’t oink in gold, we don’t want it.

And the meatballs? Diamond-dusted. Because nothing says “comfort food” like risking a cracked molar on a 24-carat chunk. “Mama Mia… that’s one pricey meatball.”

To top it all off, we garnish with edible gold leaf flakes—because every twirl of your fork should whisper “net worth.”

[Pause here to sell a kidney, because we haven’t even gotten to the breadsticks.]
Consider serving with Well-breadsticks and a Caesar salad where the lettuce is made from hundred-dollar bills. (The croutons? Artisan brioche, cut into the shape of dollar signs.)

Obviously, this isn’t a meal you eat in your sweatpants. The dress code is strictly enforced: spaghetti straps for the ladies, bow tie pasta for the gents.

Billion Dollar Spaghetti: where dinner requires a Diner’s Club card—with no spending limit.

May 21st, 2025

Journal Writing

May 21st, 2025

Rolling in the Dough

By

Since my funny business plans aren’t exactly panning out, I figured I’d try a different kind of pan—the bread kind. Seemed like a decent way to make a little extra dough in the meantime.

That’s when another one of my half-baked ideas started to rise: I’d combine my cooking and musical skills into one lucrative loaf and start a crumby, gluten-free tribute band called The Rolling Scones.

We’d be strictly covers—no grains, no gains.

Sure, we might crumble under pressure (we are gluten-free), but we’d play with heart—and surely get butter with time.

With any luck, my days of panhandling would be over—I’d make a living from leavening. We’d book gigs at all the hottest bakeries in town, playing to standing-room-only crowds who couldn’t resist our jam sessions. We’d rise quickly on the charts, serving up hits from The Rolling Scones: Greatest Slices.

Breakout tracks like:

  • “(I Can’t Get No) Oven Action”
  • “You Can’t Always Galette What You Want”
  • “Yeast of Burden”
  • “Let It Knead”
  • “Sympathy for the Devil’s Food Cake”

I can practically hear the crowd singing along:
“I see a bread drawer and I want it painted black—
No cupboards anymore, I put them on the rack…”

And for the encore? We’d bust out deep cuts from classic albums like Out of Our Breads, Between the Crutons, Bakers Banquet, and It’s Only Rock n’ Rolls.

If the audience really loafs us, maybe we’ll even get invited to perform at Breadstick ’25. And if that happens? Well, I’ll never have to worry about someone putting bread in my tip jar again. I’ll be rolling in the dough—baking in the glory.

May 10th, 2025

Journal Writing

May 10th, 2025

Gags-to-Riches

By

Okay, so maybe my pay-per-joke model isn’t exactly delivering the punch(line) I hoped for. Let’s just say my bank account is in the red. Ever seen a red piggy bank? Me neither. I’m hoping to get it back in the pink soon—otherwise, it might end up looking more like Bacon Bits. And no, that’s not a new cryptocurrency.

There’s got to be another way to cash in on comedy. I want to laugh myself all the way to the bank—as opposed to convincing the loan officer I’m good for a laugh. I still have student loans from Clown College to pay off, and let’s be honest—not every graduate lands a golden arches deal. Some of us are just small-fry clowns hoping to ketchup.

Others wind up on the street, stuck making balloon animals for spare change. That’s inflation for you.

And don’t get me started on the looming shakedown. I’m not talking strawberry, chocolate, or vanilla—I mean the kind that leaves you with one shoe and a flower that squirts tears.

So, if pay-per-joke wasn’t your jam, I’ve got a new pitch: Gig-gles—a platform connecting comedians with short-term gigs and long-term delusions of grandeur. Turn side-splitting comedy into a side hustle. You might be thinking: “You’re joking, right?” And that’s exactly the business model. You’re joking—and getting paid for it.

Great news: you can get in on the gags-to-riches plan, because I’m looking for injesters. A fool and their money are soon parted anyway—so why not give yours to an even bigger fool?

Gig-gles is no laughing matter. Act now, and I’ll throw in my entire circus act as a sign-on bonus. Help keep my piggy bank out of the salad bar.

Disclaimer: Gig-gles is not responsible for laughter-induced side stitches, wallet shrinkage, or spontaneous pie-to-the-face incidents.

May 2nd, 2025

Journal Writing

May 2nd, 2025

Just Joken

By

These days, my budget’s tighter than my toga after a second helping of lasagna. And why the lasagna needed help in the first place is beyond me.

To supplement my income—which, let’s be honest, is more like an outcome—I’m offering you a new kind of contract. I tell jokes, and you pay me in a new currency I’m calling jokens. That’s right: welcome to the thrilling world of pay-per-joke. PPJ for short—also short for petite pajamas.

If you’re anything like me, your pajama bottoms are shrinking faster than your retirement account. One day they’re cozy flannel; the next, they’re auditioning for the role of high-fashion waders. Is it the dryer? Possibly. Is it because I rode the dryer like a mechanical bull while reenacting a rodeo scene from a lasagna western? We may never know.

But that’s where jokens come in—I’ve already cracked a few jokes, so by my calculations, that should cover pajama expenses. Even if they were slightly pre-worn by a banana with questionable taste in patterns.

Okay… maybe I’m not that desperate. I barely sleep anymore, anyway. I’m too stressed about bills. (And yes, by bills, I do mean the ducks I feed at the park. It’s a running joke now. Those freeloaders love artisanal bread—and they’ve already set up a Venmo account to extort me. It’s called @QuackCash, and yes, they send reminders.)

Now, I understand if jokens aren’t your jam—but it’s not a PP&J sandwich without them. And PP&J is about all I can afford—preferably with the crusts already cut off to save on operating expenses. And by operating expenses, I’m referring to coins for the dryer down at the laundromat since mine is now mysteriously broken. The machines there don’t take jokens. Believe me—I tried.

Think of this as my version of pay-per-view, only with fewer boxing matches and way more peanut butter in regrettable places.

Still not convinced? I’m offering a 30-day risk-free trial. It can’t be any riskier than bull-riding the dryer or stepping into the ring with a Banana in Pajamas after insulting plaid.

May 1st, 2025

Journal Writing

May 1st, 2025

Teal Me More: Like, Did It Burn Out My Eyes?

By

🎶 Laser glowin’, gave me contacts
🎶 Laser glowin’, now I see black

Okay, that might not be exactly how the song goes, but you don’t have to get all scientific about it. But if you do want to get all scientific, researchers recently discovered a brand-new color called olo.

What aren’t scientists discovering these days? Still waiting on a breakthrough to stop Oreos from crumbling into oblivion when dunked in milk. That’s just how the cookie crumbles, I suppose—leaving behind a chocolatey sediment at the bottom of my glass, resembling some sort of dairy delta.

They’re calling this new color olo. Which honestly sounds like something Mr. Bean would say while answering the phone: “Olo?”

With a name like olo, you’d think it’s somewhere between orange and yellow—a sunset smoothie or at least a mango hiccup. But apparently, it falls somewhere between blue and green. So… teal? Aqua? That one elusive M&M color that only shows up when you’re down to the last five in the bag?

Here’s the twist: olo can only be seen by blasting a laser directly into your eye. Totally reasonable. I can’t wait to try it myself—just as soon as my cat’s done chasing the laser pointer. Sorry, Whiskers, but Daddy’s got to give himself cataracts in the name of science.

Personally, I’m hoping Crayola jumps on board and makes an olo crayon. That way, no one will notice when I color outside the lines in my adult coloring book. It’ll blend right in with the pizza stains on my latest masterpiece—The Dalai Lama riding a stegosaurus through a field of motivational quotes.

Anyway, it’s time for dessert. I picked up a pack of the new Olo Oreos. Let’s see if they turn my milk an invisible shade of brown. You know—choc-olo milk.

Next up: finding out if I see Grease in lightning.

April 24th, 2025

Journal Writing

April 24th, 2025

Deep-Dish Meditation

By

Lately, I’ve been cultivating what I like to call a Buddha belly. Who knew enlightenment would make one so heavy? It’s worth it, though—my consciousness has been raised much like the crust of a deep-dish pizza. I’m striving toward inner peace. Or maybe it’s inner pizza. Honestly, at this point, I’ll take either—especially if it’s topped with a little Parmezen cheese. Turns out I’ve mastered meditation—mostly because I can’t move after eating anyway. I think I’ve finally found balance, despite what my bathroom scale has to say about it.

Having a physique like a spiritual icon isn’t all bad. My girlfriend still calls me Buddha-ful. Sometimes she also calls me Jenny Craig, though I’m not sure if that’s a term of endearment or a nutritional intervention. I think it’s one of her pet names—like Ryrannosaurus Rex, the Mesozoic Pizza Mower. Sure, it’s a mouthful… but so is a large stuffed crust with extra cheese.

She really does love me. I know because she recently said, “It’s because I love you that I’m saying this: maybe spend less time at the pizza parlor and more time at the park.” Thoughtful, right? Parks are great for mindfulness. And I’ve got just the spot in mind: Jurassic Park.

It sounds peaceful enough. Greenery. Wildlife. The occasional moral reckoning about man playing God. Maybe I’ll do some yoga beneath a brachiosaurus—ease into lizard pose, glide into flying pterodactyl, and finish with ankylosaurus pose, where you grab your ankles and emotionally prepare for extinction. Dino-masté.

Of course, I’m definitely not imagining having to run for my life. Unless it’s from my girlfriend… if she finds out I stopped on the way to Jurassic Park for an extra-large veggie supreme. It’s okay though, because I believe in reincarnation—every calorie I consume returns, right around my waist.

It might not be nirvana, but it’s close. And with just one more stamp on my punch card, I get a free large one-topping. A slice of pie is like a slice of heaven—for a hungry Buddhist in sweatpants.

April 19th, 2025

Journal Writing

April 19th, 2025

The BerkShire: Where There’s Always a Second Breakfast

By

Recently, I decided to invest in stock. Not the market kind—I mean stock pots. Clearly, I’m less Wall Street and more Eat Street. I’m definitely not Warren Buffett. Wanting buffet? Absolutely. Which is why I’ve started building a diversified portfolio of cookware.

You might say I’ve opened my own hedge fund—rooted firmly in The BerkShire, where there’s always a second breakfast… and sometimes a second lunch before first dessert. I like Hobbits—they appreciate buffets the way I do.

Before I became a Samwise investor, I only had saucepans. Let’s just say… it wasn’t panning out. They couldn’t handle my high-volume cooking—or my low tolerance for scraping burnt rice. But now, thanks to my trusty stock pot, I can cook big, bold batches of anything with ease. It’s like compound interest—for stew.

Since expanding my collection, I can honestly say my kitchen game has leveled up. Before, I didn’t have much potluck. My grilled cheese sandwiches were getting so scorched, my stockbroker started making margin calls. I told him, “Wrong call—I only stock butter, not margarine.”

I keep butter on hand for one reason only: in case the Ring of Power gets stuck on my finger. That way, I can slip it off—after slipping into the realm of the unseen. Which, honestly, is exactly what I had to do after accidentally serving him a Mount Doom Melt instead of grilled cheese. It started whispering his name… and told him to buy shares that immediately plunged.

There have been times I’ve had so many dishes on the stove; I worried the whole thing might crash. I didn’t want to trigger a culinary recession just because I lacked the pans for a four-course Hobbit-style breakfast. We’re talking vegetable mini quiche, Hobbit Hash with extra thyme (because time is a flat shire-cle), wild mushrooms on cheese toast, and poached pears with lingonberry syrup—because no self-respecting Hobbit skips dessert. It’s all there in Bilbo’s pie chart of pies.

Or, if you don’t trust pastry-based data visualization, ask Warren Buffett. He’s basically the Gandalf the Grey of finance—a wizard with portfolios and an uncanny ability to show up just before everything crashes. You shall not pass… on this trade.

At this point, I’d rather diversify my pantry than my portfolio. And honestly, that might be the smarter bet—because if the market does crash, stock pots might finally be recognized as precious metals. My precious…

Not that my broker would agree—he’s still mad about the sandwich.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to disappear into the realm of the unseen—I just heard my Lord of the Ringtone. Either my stockbroker’s margin calling… or it’s my girlfriend, wondering why the grocery list is written in Elven and what on Middle-earth is Fruit of the Mallorn Tree.

April 18th, 2025

Journal Writing

April 18th, 2025

Don’t Play Koi, Play Bocce

By

I decided my girlfriend and I were going to learn Bocce Ball—mostly because it sounded like the one sport I could botch… and still be good at. I mean, how hard could it be? You toss a ball and hope for the best. That’s practically my entire athletic strategy. Some say it takes years to master Bocce. I gave myself a solid ten minutes—and honestly, that might’ve been overkill.

Now, what is Bocce Ball, you ask? Think Croquet—but without the mallets. Which is probably for the best. Give me a mallet and five minutes, and I’ll be cosplaying Thor, smiting the lawn, summoning thunder, and striking fear into the heart of the wicket.

Thankfully, Bocce Ball involves gently tossing balls instead of obliterating them with your Mjölnir—Thor’s hammer, for those of you who didn’t major in Norse mythology or Saturday morning cartoons. (And yes, it took me way too long to spell “Mjölnir” correctly. I swear it looks like two croquet balls are doing squats over the O. Honestly, why not just call it something simple, like MC Hammer?)

Anyway, gameplay starts with a coin toss to determine who goes first. Or, if you’re feeling particularly diplomatic, you can challenge your opponent to a thumb war. It’s a great way to warm up your digits, establish dominance, and confuse any bystanders who thought you came to play a sport.

Once that’s settled, the first team tosses the target ball—called the pallino, or jack if you’re on a first-name basis. Or, as I like to call him, “my old pal Jack.” Jack’s the kind of friend who doesn’t judge when your Marvel hoodie doubles as a cape and you start speaking Norse Code—which, to be clear, is like Morse Code, but with more thunder and extra dots over the O.

After that, each team takes turns tossing their bocce balls, trying to land them as close as possible to the jack. Whichever team isn’t closest keeps throwing until all the balls are played. Points are scored based on how many of your balls are closer to the jack than your opponent’s closest ball. It’s basically lawn chess, but with less thinking and more tripping over your own shoelaces.

Speaking of which—my first toss sailed majestically… for about two seconds, before it hit a rogue garden hose, veered sharply to the left, and somehow ended up in our neighbor’s koi pond. The fish were not amused. One of them gave me the side-eye, and I’m pretty sure another tried to reenact Jaws.

The goal is to get your balls as close as possible to the pallino. If one actually touches it, that’s called a kiss. Cute, right? Though honestly, it feels a bit forward. Maybe take the pallino to Tony’s first—share some spaghetti, light a candle, hum a little Bella Notte. And if Tony calls you Butchy even though you’re clearly Tramp, congrats—you’ve just played Lady and the Tramp: Bocce Edition. At the very least, you’re winning Butchy Ball.

So that’s Bocce. A game of strategy, finesse, and not nearly enough spaghetti. I may not have won, but I did get a kiss—from a bocce ball, not my girlfriend. Just to clarify. And no, I’m not in love with the pallino… we’re just close. Though apparently not exclusive—because one of the koi actually leapt out of the pond in protest. I think he had a thing for the pallino too. Either that, or I ruined his nap. It’s hard to tell with koi.

I may have inadvertently created the next Aquaman villain—wrong universe, I know. But if Marvel ever needs a hero to wrestle rogue garden hoses under the psychic control of an evil koi—all while dramatically falling over patio furniture—The Lawn Avenger is ready.

My girlfriend gave me a look and said, “You kiss one bocce ball and suddenly think you’re Tramp and an Avenger? Please. You’re more like Iron-Deficient Man. Now go sleep in the doghouse—and don’t think you’re getting any spaghetti.”

Little does she know, when you’re a Tramp, the doghouse is basically an Airbnb. It even got a 5-star review from a stray cat—“Would hiss again.” Or at least I think that’s what he said. My Norse Code isn’t the greatest. I think it might’ve been one of the ThunderCats.

And just like that, the only spaghetti in my future was emotional. And that kind of spaghetti? It’s as messy as it gets. Just ask the koi. Or my girlfriend.

Ghost Notes

Poetry Writing

Ghost Notes

By

In the corner, it lingers—a relic of the past,
Where spectral notes once waltzed and swirled,
Each chord a breath of heaven’s craft,
Shaped by hands that stitched love into sound.

Now it slumbers beneath a veil of dust,
A monument to echoes in a fractured world.
It once sang Debussy, Rachmaninoff—
Now mourned by silence, slowly unfurled.

Its voice, hushed by the passage of time,
A quiet witness to fading flames—
Of art grown ghostly, slipping away,
Its sorrow sealed within the frame.

The strings lie still, their shimmer gone,
A whisper of what we’ve become—
A final note for phantoms alone,
In this cold and silent auditorium.

April 8th, 2025

Journal Writing

April 8th, 2025

If You Don’t Gnocchi by Now

By

The other night, I was hunting for a dinner I hadn’t made before when I stumbled upon a recipe for a Gnocchi and Spinach Bake. And I thought to myself: gnocchi-dokey, you’ve got this. Because why use those two Olive Garden gift cards we got for Christmas when I could make Olive Garden jealous instead? Sorry, Olive Garden—olive-goo but not tonight.

I mean, who needs to be waited on when you can wait in line at the grocery store and wait the inestimable time it takes to bake a Gnocchi and Spinach Bake? Yes, inestimable. Fancy words are a requisite when you’re making fancy Italian food. And I’m talking Friuli-Venezia Giulia fancy—the kind of fancy where your pasta might have a trust fund.

To set the mood, I queued up my romantic cooking playlist. Things really started to simmer when Simply Red’s “If You Don’t Gnocchi by Now” came on. I stirred the sauce with feeling.

Now, I only had frozen spinach, so I did what any culinary optimist would do—I blanched it. What emerged from the pot, however, was Swamp Thing, who promptly lectured me about proper recycling practices and snapped my stirring spoon in half for being made of unsustainable wood. That’s the last time I mess with frozen spinach—it has strong opinions.

For the cream sauce, I used cashew milk. It turned out so rich I’m pretty sure it came from a cash cow rather than a cashew cow. Honestly, it was less of a béchamel and more of a bank transfer. I topped the whole thing with parmesan, almond slivers, and possibly a few splinters from the fallen wooden spoon. RIP, Stir McStickface.

I served a Caesar salad to start—thankfully appropriate now that it’s April and not the Ides of March. One assassination (of my spoon) per dinner is quite enough.

In the end, the bake was creamy, the salad was crisp, and Swamp Thing even stayed for dessert. He brought tiramisu, apologized for the spoon, and gave me a reusable bamboo spatula as a peace offering. Honestly? We gnocchi’d it out of the park. And as Simply Red would say—if you don’t gnocchi by now, you will never, never, never gnocchi… oooohhh.